


And bless the daughter but fuck the family

by dwellingondreams



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Abusive Parents, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Animal Abuse, Bad Parenting, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Child Abuse, Cersei Lannister's A+ Parenting, Character Study, Dark, Domestic Violence, Dysfunctional Family, Female Joffrey Baratheon, Gen, House Baratheon, House Lannister, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Internalized Misogyny, King's Landing, Narcissism, One Shot, POV Female Character, POV Joffrey, Period-Typical Sexism, Present Tense, Robert Baratheon's A+ Parenting, Unreliable Narrator, Victim Blaming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-25
Updated: 2019-08-25
Packaged: 2020-07-21 05:17:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19996489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dwellingondreams/pseuds/dwellingondreams
Summary: "This is the house that built me and I'm gonna burn it down." - Clementine von RadicsIf her husband ever hit her, Joanna would be sure to hit back. And then that night she’d welcome him between her legs, and slit his throat while he was at it. A little blood in the marriage bed is a natural thing, a maester once told Mother, as her complaints of the king’s roughness, his insistence on having her again so soon after the squirming, whining birth of Myrcella, were put to rest. Joanna was listening at the door. Men are brutal creatures, and women soft and delicate. It is unfortunate, but should be expected. Joanna still cries when she gets a cut, just softly and prettily, easily wiped away and forgotten. She does not cry at the sight of others’ blood. That is just the way of a lion, of any beast. They whine when they are hurt, but it does not mean they lose their appetite for meat.





	And bless the daughter but fuck the family

Joanna Baratheon is twelve years old today.

She turns twelve at dawn, when the sky above King’s Landing begins to turn pink flecked with gold and the light starts to lash through the hazy clouds and pierce down onto the sprawling city below. She was born at dawn, as is appropriate for the firstborn child of a king and queen. The day refused to begin without her. Mother has told her the tale of her birth many times, for there is nothing Mother likes so much as a good story concerning herself as the beleaguered, but ultimately triumphant heroine. As if Joanna’s birth were a dragon to be slain.

It was a long, bloody ordeal, if the tale is true. Joanna is skeptical; Mother is a known liar, after all, as are all women, but she does dearly hope it is true. She likes to imagine arriving in a torrent of blood, spurting out onto crisp white sheets. She likes to imagine herself roaring her way into the world, a true lioness, a true storm. Mother says she was screaming with the first greedy gulp of air, that the midwife claimed she’d never seen a babe so angry to be born. Joanna has always smiled at that. She is proud of her innate anger, proud that her rages have always been fierce and torrid as any man’s, as her father’s. If that does not prove her worthy, what else could? Did her father’s anger not spearhead a rebellion? Did it not win him a throne?

So while the rest of the city may have still been asleep that dawn, the Red Keep knew no rest after her birth, and never has since then. Joanna was a furious, fretful infant, only silenced at her mother’s breast. She did not sleep through the night until she was ten months old. She was the bane of the nursery, the nightmare of every maid, prompting tongue-lashings and dismissals and whippings and docks in wages, for how hard could it be to soothe an infant? Useless. She rendered them all useless. She was special. She only wanted her mother because even then she knew where her place was. Not in the arms of some mewling halfwit, driven to tears by her ceaseless crying and screaming. But in the arms of a queen.

They say she never settled for her father, either, but Joanna prefers not to think on that. She was just an infant. Likely his beard and booming voice frightened her. It was stupid of her, but she was just a baby. She knows better now. Father doesn’t frighten her. He thinks he does, sometimes, when her mouth puckers up in dismay and displeasure and her green, green eyes water- green like his late lady mother’s, Cassana Estermont, who Mother says hailed from a miserable, rainy little isle that Uncle Jaime calls Greenshit. A green-eyed woman from Greenshit, who wed a half Targaryen storm lord and whelped a future king. 

When Father is angry with her, he does things he regrets later. Once, when she was six, he caught her chasing a kitchen cat, and irritated more by the noise of the cat’s yowls and her yelps whenever it swiped at her, hissing and clawing, he grabbed her by the hair so hard he yanked out a hunk of blonde curls. Joanna had been after the cat because it was pregnant, and she so wanted a kitten that waiting seemed an awful bore. Had she been a boy of six, she might have had a hunting dagger on her- that sort of gift is common for little princes. But she was a girl, and so she had full-skirted dresses and tightly laced shoes, and the cat got away.

Her hair is long and curly and like honey in the sunlight, molten gold in the torchlight, but it is thin, thinner than Mother’s, and easily shed. Perhaps Father only meant to give her a rough yank, to chasten her, but when he pulled his large hand away from her throbbing scalp, a bloody hunk of hair came with it. Joanna remembers clutching a small hand to her head in mute, painful shock, before the tears welled up fat and greedy in her green, green eyes, and she began to wail. When Mother came she found Father crouched down in a very unkingly fashion, trying to coax her out from under a table, the bloody curls still in his hand. 

Then Mother screamed and Joanna sniffled and Father snapped that he hadn’t meant it, had just wanted to stop the damn noise, what sort of girl went around chasing bloody kitchen cats, where were the nursemaids, anyways, why wasn’t her mother looking for her- and Mother screamed, ‘What did you do to my DAUGHTER, you BEAST-,’ and although all Joanna could see from under the table were their feet, very soon she saw all of Mother, sprawled on the floor, scrambling backwards and away as Father’s fist came down again, like a hammer.

Father loves her, though. He does, she knows he does- especially now that she is not a naughty little girl anymore, now that she knows her proper manners and can dance and curtsy and sing so sweetly- she has a beautiful voice, and she plays the high harp at every feast, preening for the admiring audience. Especially since she is old enough to join him on his hunts, which Mother has always turned up her fine nose at. Joanna loves hunts, loves how proud Father is of her skill with a bow, of how often she bags rabbits and geese and deer. Once she watched him bring down a boar, and even drunk he had enough sense to keep her well away from it, under the watchful eye of two squires. 

When he returned with the boar he was beaming with pride and looking for someone to praise him, hungry for it, for this he has never faltered at: hunting, winning, triumphing, and Joanna clapped her delicate hands together, beaming, and sang out, “We’ll eat well tonight, Your Grace!” and looked at him, tall and broad and growing fatter and hairer by the year, turning from a man to a boar himself, and thought, _a beast. My father is a beast and I am his daughter, so I am half beast. Very well. If a beast loves you, what fun. He would gore and kill any who stood in your way._

What fun.

She overheard him once, drunk and speaking with Uncle Stannis, who hates her and mother in nearly equal measure, that sometimes, Joanna reminded him of- that sometimes, it was almost as if- well, one might think, seeing how wild and willful she could be, but so sweet and beautiful, such grace- she might have been- He never quite got the words out, but all Stannis had to say was, “The girl has been dead for years now, Robert.”, and Joanna knew. Lyanna. He was thinking of Lyanna, his lost lady love, the only woman he has ever loved. Thinking how, had Joanna been born dark-haired instead of blonde, she might have easily passed for a child of his and Lyanna Stark’s.

But Lyanna was weak. She let herself be carried off by the dragon prince and stuffed up in some shabby tower and left to die. Mother would never. Mother once thought to be Rhaegar’s queen, Joanna knows that much, but she never would have been his whore. If any man tried to carry Mother off, Uncle Jaime would kill him, and if he were not there in time, Mother would kill him herself. She may not wield any weapon save her tongue, but she is fierce and proud and strong, the Light of the West. She has never cowered from Father, has always gotten back up again, always refused to run or hide. Sometimes she even hits back. Joanna loves the sound of that, is thrilled by the petty violence of it, the slaps and backhands and heavy blows. 

If her husband ever hit her, Joanna would be sure to hit back. And then that night she’d welcome him between her legs, and slit his throat while he was at it. A little blood in the marriage bed is a natural thing, a maester once told Mother, as her complaints of the king’s roughness, his insistence on having her again so soon after the squirming, whining birth of Myrcella, were put to rest. Joanna was listening at the door. Men are brutal creatures, and women soft and delicate. It is unfortunate, but should be expected. Joanna still cries when she gets a cut, just softly and prettily, easily wiped away and forgotten. She does not cry at the sight of others’ blood. That is just the way of a lion, of any beast. They whine when they are hurt, but it does not mean they lose their appetite for meat.

So she thinks she may be excused, upon waking to bloodstained sheets on her twelfth name day, for the cry that escapes her pouting lips and the roiling disgust and horror in her gut. She knows what it is, of course. She is twelve, not a little girl anymore. She just didn’t expect it now. It seems too soon. Mother did not flower until she was thirteen. She scrambles up in bed, clawing at the sheets until she is free of them, and then examines her stained shift in dismay. Her throat begins to ache, and her eyes sting. Joanna swipes at them angrily, then pulls on a robe and marches over to the door.

When Mother arrives, irritated at being woken up so early, she orders the bed stripped and some rags procured, then shows Joanna how she must arrange them so as not to bleed through all her clothes from now on. “Don’t cry so,” she snaps as Joanna’s lower lip trembles. “You are a princess of House Baratheon. You must not cry at such things. I will not have a weeping willow for a daughter.” And even as she rubs Joanna’s back and presses a cool kiss to her forehead, she murmurs, “Your sister would not cry.”

Myrcella never cries. Of course she does not. Utterly forgettable Myrcella. When they named her a second daughter, another useless princess, Father drank himself into a stupor, or so Joanna has heard. She was only four at the time. Myrcella is not as beautiful as her nor as clever and she is not a son and Joanna would pity her if she had it in her. Myrcella has plenty to cry about, but she does not, out of some Baratheon stubborn streak, Joanna assumes. Myrcella is only nine, barely human in Joanna’s eyes, but she can already tell she will hate her by the time they are both women. Mother would hate a sister, had she one. Lucky then that she has only Uncle Jaime and the Imp.

Tommen is only eight, but Joanna already hates him. How could she not? Tommen is little and fat and soft and squeamish. And Mother thinks to sit him on the throne when Father is dead. Whinging, snivelling, pink-faced Tommen. Tommen with his kittens and his toys and tantrums. Tommen who Mother treats as though he were her firstborn, as if he were the most important, the best of her three children. She even gave Tommen the Hound. He makes Clegane search for his cats when they run off or when Joanna drowns them. What Joanna could do had she the Hound at her disposal- instead she has Arys Oakheart, who is pretty to look at and torture to walk with. He treats Joanna as though she were made of glass, liable to break in a strong wind.

Joanna enjoys being seen as precious, indispensable, valued. She does not enjoy being seen as fragile, brittle, fleeting. She is not just a princess. She is the only true heir Father could hope for. She would be his heir, if not for Tommen. The Targaryens may have put uncles before daughters, after Rhaenyra, but they are not Targaryens. As if Stannis would want it, anyways. He can barely tolerate Dragonstone, the ancestral seat of princes. Why should he welcome a king’s seat? Besides, that would make his ugly, mannish bore of a wife queen, and his ugly, mottled little daughter heir. Shireen, always tucked away with some book or giggling with Myrcella. Whispering about her. 

No, the people would hate him. But they would love Joanna. Of course they would. She looks like the Maiden Herself, everyone says it. There have been offers for her hand since she was two moons old. Her mother is the most beautiful woman in Westeros, and she will surpass her soon enough. Certainly now that she has flowered. Joanna wishes it were prettier, wishes it smelled better, felt better, as her stomach cramps terribly and she shifts, uncomfortable. She is clinging to Mother like a child, smelling her sweet hair and soft skin. She lets go, flustered. “I’m a woman now.”

“You are,” Mother agrees, more distantly than she would like. Joanna can never shake the nagging fear that Mother loves Myrcella more. She knows she loves Tommen more, for she had no rest and no peace until she gave Father a son, and finally shut up the court and small council’s prattling and murmurs, but surely she cannot love Myrcella more than Joanna. Myrcella and her neat stitches and her daring smiles and her warm embraces of Tommen. Myrcella the moron. Doesn’t she see? There is nothing for her unless she takes it. They will not remember her, nor sing songs of her glory. She will fade into obscurity.

Joanna thinks she is more afraid of being forgotten than anything else. 

“I must have a betrothal soon, now that I am flowered,” she presses, clasping her hands in her lap. There is a smear of dried blood on one of her perfect nails. She picks at it.

“I was not betrothed until I was seventeen,” Mother says dismissively. “We will not rush into a match for you.”

“But that is only because the Mad King would not have you for his son,” Joanna retorts, petulant, and then flinches when Mother takes her hand gently, and then squeezes it just a little too tightly, until her knuckles strain white. 

“Your grandfather wanted a worthy marriage for me,” Mother says sharply. “Just as I want for you. Age has little to do with it.” Her tone softens, and she strokes Joanna’s aching knuckles with her thumb. “If you are worried your father may try to send you North, you need not be. I will put a swift end to that.”

Mother has expressed her concern before, that Father might consign Joanna to wither and die in the frigid North with a betrothal to Ned Stark’s heir. But Joanna knows better. Father wants a Stark bride, not a Stark husband, and Lord Stark has a girl not much older than Tommen. Joanna has nothing to fear of Winterfell and its savages. She hopes Tommen’s future wife is a vicious, howling little she-wolf, who will bark and bite and scratch at him. What will he do? Cry into a pile of kittens? Beat her with a padded practice sword? 

“Of course not,” she says, wrinkling her nose. “He should give me a Martell for a husband. They are princes. I am a princess. I cannot marry below myself, surely.”

Mother lets go of her hand and stares at her. “Your father would be a fool to do such a thing. The Martells have no love for him, nor us. You are Tywin Lannister’s granddaughter. They would sooner see you dead than wed to one of them, you foolish girl.”

“They would not dare,” Joanna sneers. “They say Prince Doran is a crippled coward bound to a chair. He would not risk war now.”

“Even a crippled scorpion can still sting,” Mother tells her, shaking her head. “You are pigheaded under that pretty head of hair, sweetling. You will make a fine marriage someday. But not with a Martell. One of your cousins, perhaps.” Her voice lightens slightly, as if to sweeten the deal. “When your grandfather has passed, you might be named his heir, and rule Casterly Rock with a Lannister husband. Does that not sound lovely?”

Joanna has been to Casterly Rock many times, at least once a year, for as long as she can remember. They are due to visit again; they depart the city next week. Joanna has always enjoyed the visits and the reverent way they all look upon her, named for her beloved, dead grandmother. Even Grandfather must acknowledge that Joanna is worthy of the name. She is beautiful and courteous and talented in all the womanly arts. And she has a Lannister’s ambition, a Lannister’s pride. She is not content to let things be passed down to her. She means to fight for them. 

But that does not mean she wants the Rock. Not when there is a far more enticing option.

“I won’t marry Lancel,” she pouts, “he’s a dreadful bore, Mother. And Tyrek’s impudent. They are beneath me.”

“It would seem we are all beneath you, Joanna,” Mother snaps. Joanna does not know why she always censures and rebukes her so. She is only doing as Mother taught her, inadvertently or not. Would she rather Joanna were simply an older Myrcella, unassuming and always making peace, holding hands and singing with their cousins? She should be proud of what she has wrought. Joanna would be, had she a daughter like herself. 

Instead of deigning to reply, while Mother fumes Joanna contents herself with watching the last traces of the night sky vanish outside. The sun is rising and the city is waking, and in a few short hours the final day of her tourney will begin. Father must love her more than Mother, else he would not have ordered a tourney to honor her. After all, he has not has cause to strike her in years now. He will be doubly pleased to hear she has flowered. Now she can truly be crowned the Queen of Love and Beauty. Uncle Jaime will give her the first of her crowns, and she will wear it so well they will wonder how she might look with another, colder one atop her pretty head. 

Of course they will. They must. They must see her as she sees herself. Twelve years old and a queen in truth, if not in name. The Stag’s Daughter. Their only hope. Tommen can barely sit a pony, has no stomach for melees or jousts. Not like Joanna, who will sit on the edge of her seat and cheer until her voice gives out, ignoring her septa’s warnings, who will feel her spirits rise with every drop of blood shed on the field, who all the knights will long for. The thought of it is enough to ease her upset stomach and dull the pain between her legs. She turns back to Mother and beams, showing all her white teeth.

“I’m sorry, Mother. Let’s not fight. It is my name day, after all.”

**Author's Note:**

> I've always felt that had Cersei's first child been a power hungry daughter who didn't do much to disguise her ambition for the throne, the part of the famous Maggy the Frog prophecy concerning 'queen you shall be, until there comes another, younger and more beautiful' might take on a whole new meaning for her.
> 
> You can find me on tumblr at [dwellordream](https://dwellordream.tumblr.com/).


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